ARK you, I am not defending James Datchett. I think James should not have done it. I merely say that there were extenuating circumstances,
Let us review the matter calmly and judicially.
The fact was that James, who was assistant master at Mr. Blatherwick's private school, at a small but sufficient salary, was also a poet. In his Harvard days he had contributed light verse to a college magazine; and for some months past now he had been endeavoring to do the same to the papers of New York, without success until that very morning.
I want you to follow me very closely here. As far as the excusing of James' conduct is concerned, it is now or never. If I fail at this point to touch you, James is, if I may use the expression, definitely in the soup.
Let me marshal my facts.
It was a simply bully morning.
James had just found a set of verses of his in print in a monthly magazine.
This had never happened to him before.
He was twenty-two.
And, just as he rounded the angle of the house, he came upon Violet, taking the air like himself.
“Good morning, sir,” said Violet.
Violet was one of the housemaids, a trim, energetic little person with round blue eyes and a friendly smile. She smiled at James as she spoke. James halted.
From my list of contributory causes I find that I have omitted one item, viz., that there did not appear to be anybody else about. In another moment the deed was done. James stooped, and—in a purely brotherly manner—kissed Violet.
This, of course, was wrong. It was no part of James' duties as assistant master at Harrow House to wander about kissing housemaids, even in a brotherly manner. On the other hand, there was no great harm done. In the circles in which Violet moved the kiss was equivalent to the handshake of loftier society. Everybody who came to the back door kissed Violet. The expressman did; so did the the baker, the butcher, the grocer, the gardener, the postman, the policeman, and the fishmonger. They were men of widely differing views on most points. On religion, politics, and the prospects of the Giants in next Saturday's ball game their opinions clashed. But in one respect they were unanimous. Whenever they came to the back door of Harrow House, they all kissed Violet.
James passed on; and Violet, having sniffed the morning air for a few more minutes with her tiptilted nose, went indoors to attend to her work. One would have said that the incident was closed.
But retribution was on James' track. And the weapon she chose was Adolf.
One is forced to the conclusion that retribution must have been hard up for a weapon, for a more ignoble ally than Adolf it would have been hard to find.
He was one of that numerous band of Swiss and German youths who come to this country prepared to give their services ridiculously cheap in exchange for the opportunity of learning the English language. Mrs. Blatherwick, the masterful wife of the proprietor of Harrow House, had urged upon her husband the advantages of male servants over female as front door openers. Mrs. Blatherwick's view was that the parents of prospective pupils would be impressed at the sight of a man in livery. She would have liked something a bit more imposing than Adolf, but he was the best that could be got for the money. So Adolf came to Harrow House.
Had he not done so, he could not, of course, have witnessed from an upper window, as he did, the brotherly behavior of James Datchett. As it was, he got a most excellent view of it, and retired, grinning like a gargoyle, to turn the thing over in his mind, and see what profit he might derive from the same.
James, meanwhile, ostensibly at his desk teaching a bored class the rudiments of Latin composition, was in spirit miles away from Harrow House. He was in the office of an important magazine, being warmly welcomed by the editor, whom he had consented to supply with light verse on the most advantageous terms.
The blow fell after tea, when, being off duty for an hour, he was smoking a pipe in his bedroom and trying to knock off a set of verses on a topical subject. Adolf's entry just nipped in the bud a rather happy idea for the second stanza. He glared at the intruder.
“Well?” he growled. Poets are notoriously irritable.
“Anysing from ze fillage, sare?” said Adolf. The bulk of Adolf's perquisites derived from the tips he received to the village for tobacco, stamps, and so on.
“No. Get out,” said James.
He was surprised to find that Adolf, so far from getting out, came in and shut the door at once.
“Zst!” said Adolf, with a finger on his lips.
James stared.
“In ze garden zis morning, I did zee you giss Violed. Zo!”